Monday, 14 September 2015

The Book of Phoenix

Never let anyone tell you that twitter is
worthless. In addition to the massive box of books I scored a couple of years
back based on nothing more than a cheap seasonal pun, I'm now in possession of
a gorgeous hardback copy of The Book of
Pheonix, thanks to the fact that the good people at Hodderscape (or at
least their social media managers) have a surprisingly similar taste to me for
dubious mid-90's RnB poetry mash-ups.

It's especially pleasing in this case, as this
plopping onto the doormat essentially made a tricky decision for me: this is a
book that I wanted to read, but wasn't necessarily sure that I wanted to expend
resources on acquiring. I've read a couple other of Okorafor's books—including Who Fears Death, to which this serves as
a prequel—and my reactions have been very equivocal. Can something be very equivocal? I guess I mean that there's
been a hell of a lot to admire about the books in terms of theme, content, and
imagery, but unfortunately I just haven't been able to get on with the style.
More specifically, it's the narrative voice(s) employed. Here:

I stood tall, stretching my arms, back, and legs. I felt a little
odd. Like I was me, but who was me? I looked at myself. I was naked and covered
in dust; I must have looked like a ghost. But I was alive. After I'd died. I
vividly remembered dying. My name is Phoenix, I thought. I don't know who named me,
but I am named well. I stood up
straighter.

Pulling out this particular passage to
quote might be a little unfair, as the percussive repetition of the first
person singular here is clearly deliberate. (Pheonix has just experienced
her first death and rebirth cycle, and this is her taking ownership of her new
self.) But on the other hand, that deliberateness is a large part of what I
find so awkward about the narration in Okorafor’s work*. There's a dissociative
neutrality about her voices, combined with a certain didacticism that results
in a tendency to repetitive overexplanation.

You never get the sense of the writer not
trusting her readers, however, which is often the effect of this kind of
writing. In every instance the stylistic decisions make sense for the character
and story being told: the flatness in Who
Fears Death can be ascribed to its flashback device, the disparate
told-not-shown superficiality in Lagoon
a result of the focus on place over character, and here the simple descriptive
prose arises naturally from the fact that Phoenix, the narrator, is an
experimental test subject whose growth has been accelerated so at the start of the book, and despite being
able to read a book in a matter of minutes and having the physical appearance
of a forty-year-old woman, is only three years old.

During the course of her short life she’s
constantly subjected to emotionally and physically painful tests. Her
inventors/captors succumb to inevitable hubris and she escapes, before turning
her rage upon them and everything they represent, and her rage burns bright and
long and hard. In the latter stages of the book you’re actually quite glad for
that stylistic dissociation, for the same reason you wouldn’t want to get too
close to an exploding building: it’s distressing enough to experience (and rightfully
so) even from that distance, so if you were any closer to the source it would be devastating.

Okorafor, then, is a writer of significant skill who clearly has consummate control over her craft, who tackles important,
uncomfortable issues with passion and belligerence, and who is on occasion
capable of conjuring breathtaking imagery. And yet for all the technical
adeptness on display in her work there’s still something about it that leaves
me a little cold. I want to love her work; there is so much about her work that
should be lovable, and righteously unlovable, and everything in between. But underneath
it all there’s the sensation that I’m being spoken at rather than to, and it’s
one that’s unfortunately only gotten worse with time, not better. Her books
deserve to be read widely and read well, and I can only offer my sincere hopes
that you get on better with them than I do.

*I’m only referring to the three books of
hers I’ve actually read, of course. As far as I can tell though those are all
the novels she’s written aimed at adults, so I think that’s a valid enough
sample to draw some conclusions from.